


Cigarette

by HotDogDeleted



Series: SoCali Criminalis [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: F/F, San Bernardino is gay af, The girls meet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-02
Updated: 2018-05-02
Packaged: 2019-05-01 08:04:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14515983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HotDogDeleted/pseuds/HotDogDeleted
Summary: San Bernardino really. Really. Wants a smoke.





	Cigarette

**Author's Note:**

> This was actually the first thing that I wrote for these two. I honestly love working with these characters it’s super fun. Once the movie’s out maybe I’ll even write an actual interaction with canon characters

It’s getting late and she wants a smoke. She fights the urge because she’s barely halfway through her twenties and trying to leave her life-threatening recklessness in the past, and functioning lungs seem like a necessity in the near future. 

 

So she doesn’t get out a cigarette. Instead she counts to fifteen in her head, and counts to fifteen again. She fantasizes about what they’re going to look like. The voice over the phone was soft, and had a low cadence, and they didn’t say much beyond when and where to meet before hanging up, so it’s not like she has much to go off of anyway. So she thinks, and she drives. 

 

Usually the kinds of people she picks up are rough around the edges, to say the least. The people who hire her for  _ these  _ jobs anyway. Her day job is much less suspicious. But being a chauffeur only gets her so far, even with her Uber pickups. 

 

Once she realized that there was a whole other side to her town–full of people with a whole lotta cash–the decision wasn’t a hard one. She was a good driver, efficient, and never said a word to anyone about anything. Word got around, and now she pulled long nights more often than before, but the dough she raked in was worth it. 

 

She liked it, spending most of her time with people who didn’t know a thing about her. She went by San Bernardino now. Went by that name because, well, she always felt a twinge of nostalgia when she drove past the sign:  _ San Bernardino Welcomes You _ . She liked it, despite never having actually lived there. 

 

It was familiar enough to prevent her from forgetting the important things, but only just. 

 

Criminals need to get around just like anyone else, and they’re willing to pay a lot more than the Uber-calling weekend drunks. And they (for the most part) didn’t throw up in her car on the way home. 

\----

San Bernardino pulls up to the empty parking lot and squints at the silhouette standing there. They move swiftly to the car and in one smooth motion, open the door and get in the back seat. 

 

She can’t help but sneak glances at her passenger through the rearview. It’s a bit of a relief, honestly to be driving someone who wasn’t a middle-aged man who paid well but leered at her the whole time. This passenger said nothing and stared out the window, and ...

fuck. She was beautiful. 

 

Yosemite is the name she’d given, when making arrangements, and honestly? It fit. She’s tall and, though she’s covered for the most part, with what looks like overalls and a thick jacket,  she has a silent strength in every subtle movement. Her thick dark hair hung neatly in two heavy braids down past her shoulders. 

They drove in silence until,

 

“Stop. Here.” 

 

Her voice was low, rough from disuse, but firm. San Bernardino parked discreetly along the curb. They sat there, the two of them, in the dark.  _ Maybe she’s got cold feet.  _ San Bernardino thought, and then,  _ what  _ is  _ she planning to do anyway?  _ She never asked, of course, what her passengers needed transportation for. She didn’t get this far by making herself a liability, and plus it would just be plain unprofessional. But before she could form another thought Yosemite opened the door and got out and,

 

“Go somewhere else.” She said. “I need you here in thirty minutes.” and San Bernardino nodded before realizing she couldn’t see her. She cleared her throat.

 

“I’ll be here.”

 

And then there was the slam of the car door being shut. San Bernardino watched silently as Yosemite walked briskly down the street, turned a corner, and disappeared. 

 

San Bernardino sighed and started the engine. Thirty more minutes alone with her thoughts. She  _ really  _ wanted that smoke. 

 

\---

_ I’ll be here _ was what she’d said, and she was there, no later, no earlier. Thirty minutes on the dot she was there parked in the exact same spot on the curb and Yosemite was there waiting for her. Opened the door and got into the passenger seat this time and San Bernardino inhaled sharply.  

 

Yosemite smelled like, well, a forest fire. San Bernardino’s mind wondered wildly for a few seconds before it clicked. 

Arson. This was new. This car had transported many burglars, a slew of drug dealers, and on more than one occasion a particularly sleazy arms dealer, but this was new. 

 

As she started the car and pulled away from the curb, she could hear the distinct wail of a fire engine. Yosemite didn’t meet her inquiring stares, and instead looked straight ahead, her face unreadable, but her shallow breathing giving away how she felt. 

 

It was a silent drive along empty roads. She was startled, to say the least, when Yosemite began to silently sob. Uncomfortable and unsure of what to do, San Bernardino pretended not to notice her passenger's emotional state. She switched the radio on, alternative rock. It played softly, the melancholy soundtrack for their journey home. Three songs passed before Yosemite’s soft, hiccuped sobs subsided. Then they were back in that parking lot and Yosemite turned and suddenly it occurred to San Bernardino that she was  _ very close  _ and Yosemite was looking into her eyes, they were making eye contact for the first time all night and  _ god  _ those eyes  _ burned.  _ San Bernardino swallowed dryly and looked back, holding the gaze. For a second Yosemite seemed as though she were about to speak, but then she broke off, cast her eyes downward and mumbling a quiet thank you. She made to leave but then

 

“Wait!” San Bernardino had no idea why she was doing this, ridiculous and dangerous as it was. But she continued, “give me your hand.” Yosemite blinked. And held her hand out. 

 

San Bernardino ruffled through the glove box and upon finding an old pen, proceeded to messily scrawl a string of digits along Yosemite’s surprisingly soft palm. 

Yosemite looked down at her newly decorated hand. Another slow blink. 

 

“In case...in case you need anything!” San Bernardino explained lamely. 

 

Yosemite suddenly looked as though she might cry again and San Bernardino begins to regret her actions but then Yosemite smiles a small smile and utters an even smaller thank you. Then she gets out of the car she walks out away into the dark evening without looking back once. 

 

San Bernardino watches her go. Strains to see her until the night swallows her up. Then she sits back exhaustedly. She thinks about Yosemite’s intense stare, and how she’d  _ smelled  _ of ash and flames and destruction. 

 

She drives and she thinks about it and her blood sings through her veins. 

  
_ One  _ cigarette couldn’t hurt.


End file.
